


Forever Won’t Last, and Neither Will We

by Cydersyrup



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Dark Humor, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Smut, Family Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Mild Gore, Non-Linear Narrative, Pandemics, Smoking, Underage Smoking, everyone's trying their best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25180714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cydersyrup/pseuds/Cydersyrup
Summary: Doyoung glowers at the state of the kitchen. “The whole world is coming to an end and you’re sat sipping your strawberry milk!” he yells. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”Yuta shrugs, taking another long sip of his pink beverage. “Not my problem.”“Do you not care to live anymore?”“At this point, I hardly think what any of us are doing can be classified as ‘living’, Doie.”Doyoung wants to strangle him. Oh, how he wants to just wrap his hands around Yuta’s pretty neck and STRANGLE him.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 41
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING!
> 
> 1\. This fic includes blood, violence, some (major) character death, a LOT of cursing, discussions on mental illness, and morality issues.  
> 2\. EVERYTHING IS FICTION AND ONLY INTENDED FOR ENTERTAINMENT!  
> 3\. THIS WORLD IS NOT REALITY! NOT. REALITY.
> 
> That said, hope y'all enjoy!

Contrary to what conspiracy theories and popular culture has made it to be, the end of the world is not catastrophic. It’s bad, yeah, but not really climatic.

The end of the world is more like cancer.

Most people aren’t even aware it’s happening to them, and it just creeps and grows and kills, slowly but surely.

In the 1,243 days, 14 hours, and 59 minutes since what the news reports call Dawn Zero, there have been no survivors of the infection. Most who die didn’t even know that they were infected in the first place. 

They call the virus going around the “Day’s Madness Disease”, because that’s exactly what it is. Those affected will present asymptomatic for days, _weeks_ even, before going completely insane for the total duration of twenty-four hours. Sometimes less. Sometimes more.

Then they die.

And if it’s _really_ bad, they’ll take a couple people with them.

Simple as that. 

Doyoung has lived through enough days in the outbreak to understand that much. He’s seen his fair share of madness, terror, and death. Sometimes it’s right next to him, and despite the risk of infection from the airborne pathogen, he watches on.

There’s something remotely fascinating about the descent into madness. It’s always interesting to see how a person will suddenly and completely lose every sense of who they are and act out only on raw, feral instinct.

To survive.

To fight.

To _kill_. 

Doyoung lights a cigarette, brings it to his lips, and leans back against the wall of the grocery store as he watches a young woman snap and begin throwing shopping carts at a panicked man who Doyoung guesses is her husband (poor bastard).

He doesn’t register the smoke going inside his lungs, but he sees it come out in a puff of gray. Doyoung takes two more hits before stubbing out his half-used cigarette against the wall, tossing the butt into the trash can nearby. 

Taeyong’s list of necessities rests in his left pocket, and Doyoung fishes it out as he enters the mostly-empty grocery store. Broken grass crunches under his feet as he treads over them, scanning the aisles for anything that’s on the list. 

Most of the place has been ransacked already, and nobody has bothered to restock the shelves for a long, long time. The checkout lines are completely devoid of cashiers, and dirt litter the floor along with the glass and broken grocery carts. 

Why Taeyong even bothers sending him here, Doyoung has no idea. There’s barely anything left here to even scrounge up anymore. All the food is gone, so is the water, cleaning supplies, and anything else to make life comfortable. Ever since the public realized the true severity of the infection, people have gone crazy panic-shopping and hoarding as much supplies as possible for the ensuing quarantine period. 

At this point, it would make more sense to just break into someone’s house for the supplies, but no, he can’t do that, because as Taeyong puts it, they have _morals_.

As if Doyoung isn’t walking right into an abandoned grocery store and robbing it in broad daylight. 

Sure, there’s no security to catch him, but _still_.

Doyoung takes one more look around the store and stops in the medicine section. For some odd reason (and he will never understand why), the birth control section and bandages are always left barely-touched. Maybe people just thought that because the world is going to end slowly and wipe out the entirety of the human population, that sexually-transmitted infections and getting pregnant are suddenly less of a problem than it was before.

Idiots.

Doyoung picks up a packet of condoms and the last miniature first-aid kit to drop into his backpack, and mentally checks off one item on the list.

The liquor aisles are reduced to mostly glass shards and alcohol stains, but a couple bottles are still intact in the back, and Doyoung reaches far into the bottom shelf to pull out a small bottle of bourbon.

Check.

A variety of medicines and cigarettes lay behind a locked, half-smashed glass display case, and Doyoung helps himself to some sleeping pills and five packs of cigarettes. He may not smoke all that often himself, but Johnny and Jaehyun light it up like fucking chimneys.

Check and check.

When Doyoung makes it back outside, the crazy woman and her husband are gone. All that’s left of their skirmish is a dented shopping cart and a pair of broken sunglasses on the asphalt. 

“Yo.”

Doyoung’s head snaps over towards the voice, hand immediately reaching for the knife at his belt. His eyes meet another pair, and Yuta peels himself off the wall, raising his hands amiably as he steps forward.

“What’s up, Doyoung?”

“Jesus, don’t scare me like that,” Doyoung huffs, relaxing again as Yuta sidles up next to him. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Taeyong sent me to get supplies.”

“I thought that was my job.”

“Yeah, well…” Yuta holds up a black bag that Doyoung hasn’t seen on him earlier. “We got kids to feed. Can’t keep playing by the rules, y’know?”

Doyoung feels offended. “So Taeyong let you go breaking into houses and stealing, but I can’t?”

Yuta laughs, the sound clear and shrill. “Oh no, he still said we shouldn’t break into houses, but I just don’t care.” His face sobers somewhat. “Most of them will be dead soon anyways. They don’t need so much stuff.”

“And we do.”

“We do!” Yuta agrees eagerly. “I didn’t see them have any kids in the house, but we’ve got growing kids to take care of!”

“Mark’s seventeen and Donghyuck’s sixteen,” Doyoung deadpans.

“You forget all the other little brats,” Yuta chimes. “They’re our babies!”

“Fine. Whatever,” Doyoung huffs as they cross under a bridge and past a small thicket of trees. The path they take leads away from the suburbs of the city, until concrete and asphalt dissipate into dirt trails and green foliage all around. The trail grows thinner and thinner as they wander further in between trees, until instinct and memory are all they have to guide them home.

Taeyong is there to greet them when they arrive at the dilapidated gates of a large building somewhere in the middle of the woods. A rusted metal sign reading faintly of “Neo Culture Psychiatric Institution” hangs haphazardly off the overreaching arch of twisted metal looming over the entrance. Yuta reaches up and plucks it off, before flinging his arm back and hurling the sign as far away from them as possible.

“It was gonna fall,” he says coolly when Doyoung shoots him a questioning stare. “I’m just doing everyone a favor.”

“Sure you are.” Doyoung sidesteps Yuta and raises a hand to greet Taeyong with. “Hey, Yong.”

“You were out for so long, I was getting worried,” Taeyong huffs, hands on his hips. “Did you get what we need?”

“Most of it.” Doyoung hands his backpack over at the same time Yuta hands over his bag. Taeyong takes them both and rummages through the contents briefly before nodding in approval.

“Good. This should last us another week or two.”

Doyoung catches the sight of three nimble bodies hiding behind the half-open door. Kids these days think they’re so slick. He raises an eyebrow at the little peeping toms, and there’s a slight scuffle before the bodies disappear back inside the building.

“Let’s hope.” He nudges his head towards the open door. “So what’s new?”

Taeyong’s shoulders droop a little as they make their way indoors. “Lucas and Mark finished repairing the clothes and Chenle’s been sleeping more.”

“Is that good?”

“I don’t know.”

Doyoung hums, but doesn’t pry further. Food has been running low, so maybe Chenle’s just growing more fatigued from the lack of nutrients. That, or he’s just trying to sleep off the hunger so he won’t have to feel it.

Either way, the news breaks Doyoung’s heart a little. 

The inside of the building is as worn as the outside, but they’ve managed to tidy it up enough to have it be livable. The lounge is filled with half-broken furniture and there’s a couple people sitting around the area. Doyoung catches Sicheng’s eyes as the latter finishes explaining something to Yangyang, and they nod at each other in greeting.

“I reckon it’d be a stretch to ask what’s for dinner,” Yuta drawls as he falls into step next to Doyoung.

Taeyong shoots him a sharp look over his shoulder as they enter their tiny kitchen. “We only have peas and some bread. It’s fresh-baked, but now we’re officially out of flour.”

“Well, that means we gotta make another run soon.” Doyoung watches in amusement as Yuta begins pulling open the cabinets and drawers. “I dunno if we can get flour, but we can try.”

Taeyong glares at him as he begins unpacking the supplies from the bags. “No ransacking.”

Yuta throws Taeyong a sly glance over his shoulder. “Where do you think the food came from, Yong?”

“Yuta!”

Doyoung sighs. “Yong, we’re running out of options—”

“No.” Taeyong turns back to pulling out cans and a bottle of oil from Yuta’s bag. “I get that desperate times are calling for desperate measures, but we’re not stooping that low. There’s other people out there who need to survive too, Doyoung.”

“We have children.”

“And I’m sure they do too.”

“Yong,” Doyoung says sharply. “I know you mean well, but time’s not gonna spare any of us and the virus sure as hell isn’t. We’ve been barely scraping by for weeks now. Weeks! I’m worried about the kids.”

“The kids are holding their own as best as they can,” Taeyong counters. “And I’m making sure of that. But there’s some lines we don’t cross, Doyoung. We can’t afford to.”

Doyoung scoffs. “So you’re content to just play by the rules and let us all starve?”

Taeyong scowls. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t.” Doyoung turns, seeing Yuta standing by the door and watching their exchange silently. “But come on, Yong. We’re a big family. Count us yourself. Half of us are teens and younger. We need more food. More of everything.”

“There’s not enough of everything to go around,” Taeyong says, resigned. “Doyoung, you know this. Even the public storehouses are running low.”

Doyoung sighs. There’s no point in arguing with Taeyong over this anymore. It always ends the same, with one of them pissed off and no more food on the table for the rest of their family. So for now, Doyoung shuts up and follows Yuta out of the kitchen and into the lounge.

Sicheng’s sitting on a couch with Jisung tucked up in his lap, the young boy wrapped up in a blanket and sipping occasionally from a metal cup. Jeno and his twin Jaemin are sitting on the floor before them, playing some kind of card game with Lucas that they seem to be winning in, if the pout on Lucas’s face is anything to go by.

“Hey.” Doyoung stretches out a fist and Sicheng meets it with his own. “How’s everyone been?”

“As good as we can get,” Sicheng replies, shifting his arm to cradle Jisung more snugly. “Isn’t that right, Sungie?”

Jisung nods from his little blanket burrito. “I’m staying hydrated,” he says with a smile. His legs are a little too long to be contained in Sicheng’s lap alone and stretch out onto the armrest of the couch. “I’m feeling better.”

“It’s just a cold,” Sicheng assures when Doyoung’s brows furrow. “We’ve given him some more vitamins and water. He’s recovering just fine.”

Doyoung nods. “You have to take care of yourself more, Sungie. We’re all so worried about you.”

Jisung smiles sleepily and ducks his head. “I’ll try,” he murmurs, before dozing off against Sicheng’s chest.

Doyoung knows a half-assed promise when he hears one. But this is Jisung trying to stay strong, and Doyoung doesn’t have it in him to try and push the kid harder than he’s pushing himself.

“If only…” Doyoung stops himself before he can lament further. Kicking himself in the ass isn’t going to put more food on the table or provide poor Jisung with proper medicine. Life isn’t going to go back to the way it was before the pandemic, and it never will. All Doyoung can do now—all any of them can do now—is just try their best to survive.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. It’s a little dented, but new. Doyoung passes it over to Sicheng, who takes it tentatively.

“This should do for another two weeks, yeah?”

Sicheng’s eyes are sad as they meet Doyoung’s. “Doyoung—”

“I know.” Doyoung drops his head against his palm, unable to stand Sicheng’s gaze any longer. “We don’t have a choice, Sicheng.”

“We can’t just keep staving it off like this, though.” Sicheng’s voice breaks as he speaks. “There has to be a better way. A safer way.”

“I know,” Doyoung says again. “But...until we figure that out, just...take that, okay? And take care of yourself.” He lifts his head, avoiding Sicheng’s teary gaze as he stands and gently ruffles Jisung’s hair.

It’s already evening, which means that soon, everyone will have to get together for dinner. And with the amount of food they have compared to the number of mouths to feed, Doyoung just knows it’ll be nothing more than a mouthful for him.

Just enough to keep him alive.

His stomach rumbles, but Doyoung ignores it as he walks to his room. It's not much to look at—just one of the many patient rooms back when the institution used to be running. The inside is sparsely furnished with paint peeling off the walls and a tiny window hardly big enough for Doyoung to stick his head out of. There’s an old belt lying on his rickety bed, and Doyoung pulls it around his waist, tightening it until he feels the leather digging into his flesh.

The hunger dies down a little.

If he can just skip another meal, even if he’s already only living off one morsel every other day, then that’s another bite of food everyone else can have.

Doyoung doesn’t mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Doyoung wakes up to the sound of crying.

“Who—” he doesn’t give himself the chance to finish his thought as he hauls himself out of bed and stumbles out of his room, following the sound of crying down the hall. Other people are coming out of their own rooms as well, all rushing towards the commotion in the dark. 

“What happened?” He pushes through the other bodies milling around the source of the crying and rushes over to the bed inside the tiny room, where Sicheng is cradling Jisung against his chest. It's a little hard to see in the dim light, but Doyoung notices the symptoms right away—Jisung’s entire body is shaking, and his forehead is beaded with sweat. His lips are white.

Sicheng lifts his head to meet Doyoung’s gaze. His eyes are wide with worry and hurt and Doyoung immediately drops down by his side.

“Sicheng, what happened?”

“I-I don’t know,” Sicheng rasps. “I was just going to grab some water and I was passing by when I heard Jisung whimpering. I came in to check, and found out that his condition only got worse.”

“Did you give him water? Food?”

“I tried.” Sicheng shakes his head, pointing at the untouched water and morsel of bread on the nightstand. “Jisung won’t drink. He won’t eat. He’s been crying for some time now.” His voice breaks as he gently brings up a hand to cradle the boy’s cheek. “Just...crying.”

Doyoung reaches over and brushes the back of his hand against Jisung’s forehead. The skin is sticky with sweat and hot under his skin. Too hot.

“He’s got a fever. A bad one.” Doyoung stands up and turns to the small crowd gathered behind him. Almost half of their group is gathered around, watching with rags and bottles of water in hand, and Doyoung quickly notices someone missing.

“Where’s Taeyong? Yuta?”

Mark shakes his head jerkily, still looking half-asleep. “I dunno, hyung. In their rooms, probably. Taeyong-hyung’s been working around nonstop and Yuta-hyung pretty much disappeared after you guys came back yesterday.”

“Damn it.” Doyoung is a hundred percent willing to bet Yuta locked himself away in his room again. It’s his own way of recovering from the strain of going out into the world and robbing others of their supplies. But under these circumstances, when one of their kids is seriously ill and the whole family is looking out for them, not showing up is just plain rude.

“Hyung?” Mark calls as Doyoung pushes past the group. “Where you going?”

“To get Yuta.”

“Hyung—”

Doyoung ignores the call from behind him as he stalks down the hall, nerves fizzling and senses on high alert as images of Jisung’s feeble form plagues his mind.

They can’t lose Jisung. Not him. Death will have to pry the boy from Doyoung’s cold, dead fingers before he’ll allow it.

“Yuta!” Doyoung stops before the other’s door and bangs his fist against the aged wood. “Open up! Yuta!”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and Doyoung feels panic beginning to bloom in him as a faint bout of coughing starts down the hall. 

“Damn it Yuta, open the door!” Doyoung yells, twisting the knob to no avail. “It’s an emergency, you asshole! Open the fucking door!”

Yuta still doesn’t respond, and the door remains locked. Doyoung groans into his hands before planting them both against the wood. “Okay, Yuta, listen up. You have three seconds to open this motherfucker or this plank of wood is gonna get well-acquainted with my shoulder.” He draws back and positions himself to shoulder the door open.

“One—”

The door remains closed.

“Two—”

Still nothing.

“Three!” Doyoung charges the door, and right before his shoulder can jam against the wood, it swings open, revealing the messy room within and an amused Yuta holding onto the handle. Doyoung tumbles in, falling flat on his face, and bites out a curse.

“Fucking  _ ow _ .”

Yuta blinks down at him. “My, my. Look who decided to visit.”

“You do know that nobody likes you, right?” It comes out harsher than Doyoung expects, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Yuta’s face lights up in a smile nonetheless, his dry lips pulling apart so wide they split. “To be frank, I don’t like me either. But you don’t see me complaining about that, now do you?” He licks the blood off his lips and saunters further into the room. The rickety bed creaks when Yuta flops onto it, his threadbare blankets bunching messily around his legs as he crosses them. Yuta's eyes are wide and gleaming with something that makes the hairs on the back of Doyoung’s neck stand up straight.

“Well, I know you didn’t come here to chit-chat, Doyoung.” Yuta tilts his head, gesturing at the space next to him on the mattress. “Come on, what do you want?”

Doyoung picks himself off the floor and stays standing where he is. “Jisung’s very sick.”

“Jisung?” Yuta sits up a little straighter. “Our little baby?”

“Yes, Yuta.”

Something dark crosses over Yuta’s features. “What’s he sick with now?”

“Bad fever, a cold, and malnourishment, among other things. Sicheng tried giving him water and food but he won’t eat anything.”

“What does he need?” Yuta asks somberly, all the earlier playfulness evaporating off of him like water vapor. “What do we need to get?”

“Medicine. Something like aspirin to reduce his fever,” Doyoung sighs. “And goddamn it, we all know the stores are not an option.”

Understanding dawns over Yuta’s face, and he smirks. “That’s what you came to me for?” He swings his legs off the bed and grabs the large duffle bag in the corner. “Doie, if you needed a buddy to break into a house with, you could’ve just said so.”

“It’s not _ just _ breaking into a house,” Doyoung snaps, catching Yuta’s gaze and holding it with all the force he has. “This is Jisung’s life on the line. We’re running out of food, and we have no medicine. You know this as well as I do. The kids are starving but they’re not saying a damned thing, and I’m not just gonna sit my ass down and watch these kids die, Yuta.”

Yuta’s face softens with something like compassion, even though Doyoung knows that could never be the case. It’s not like Yuta’s a bad person—far from it, actually—but Doyoung knows from years and years of being together that his best friend can never be empathetic. Yuta’s smile is blinding, his face ethereally handsome, and his attention for his friends genuine, but he can never feel someone else’s pain. Can never understand human emotions in full. That’s just how Yuta is.

“You care an awful lot about them, don’t you?” Yuta asks, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Doyoung sighs. It’s so hard to convey his emotions, especially to someone who won’t understand them. Of course he cares a lot about the kids—they’re just kids, for crying out loud. They deserve a better life than the ones they’re living right now, and if there’s one thing Doyoung can only hope to achieve in this apocalypse, it’s to give them some semblance of a normal life.

He tells Yuta as much, and doesn’t expect a reply. Yuta doesn’t give him one, just a brief look of acknowledgement, and it’s as good as he’s ever going to get, so Doyoung takes it in stride and heads out to his own room.

* * *

“Hyung.” Mark catches them right as they head for the front doors. His eyes are wide with worry and his hands are clutched around a broom handle like it’s his only anchor left in the world. “Are you heading out again?”

Doyoung and Yuta exchange a glance. They’re both decked out in their heavier outerwear, bags and tools slung over their backs. Mark must see the implications behind their appearance, because Doyoung can see his heart positively break from within those innocent doe eyes.

“It’s not safe.” Mark shakes his head, the action slow and a little feeble. He’s painfully thin, his shirt slipping down his shoulders a little when it used to fit him just fine a couple months prior. “You just came back. It’s not safe to go out again so soon.”

“Jisung needs medicine, Mark. Medicine we don’t have,” Doyoung says gently, patting the younger boy’s bony shoulder. “We’ll be out and back again before you know it. And if luck’s on our side, we’ll bring in some more food.”

Mark looks unconvinced. “But what if you get hurt? What if someone infects you?”

Yuta laughs. “Don’t worry too much about that, kiddo. We got smoke therapy on our side.”

“Unconventional, but it works,” Doyoung adds. “Trust us, okay Mark? You just take care of yourself and Jisung for us when we’re gone.”

“Please don’t say that,” Mark mutters sadly, averting his gaze to the ground. It isn’t until a couple beats later that Doyoung realizes his mistake, and horror washes over him as Mark begins to cry.

“Shit, no Mark, I didn’t mean it like that.” Doyoung pulls Mark into a hug, cradling the boy’s head against his shoulder. “Oh my god, no. No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Nowadays, words carry more weight than they ever had before. There’s a mutual understanding between them all—that one day, one (or more) of them might leave permanently. Doyoung’s usually very careful with how he phrases things, especially around the younger members of their family, but he’s only human. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Doyoung soothes, patting Mark’s head as he gently rocks the boy in his arms. “I’m right here, Mark. I’m not leaving you guys, alright? Nobody’s leaving anytime soon.”

“He’s right,” Yuta pipes in from the side. “We’ll be fine, kiddo. Make sure you all eat something today.”

Mark pulls away from Doyoung’s arms. His eyes are red and puffy, and he wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “Okay.”

“Good boy.” Doyoung gives Mark’s hair an affectionate ruffle and turns towards the door. “If Taeyong asks, just tell him we went out.”

Nothing more, nothing less. That’s their agreement. There’s some things in the world that Taeyong just doesn’t need to be informed of, because life’s hard enough already.

Mark watches them leave, and the expression on his face is as soft and delicate as stretched silk. He’s praying under his breath, hands clasped together around the broom handle and eyes slipping shut as he pours his faith into words.

“What a good kid,” Yuta says as he and Doyoung pass the gates of the institution. “Always praying for our safety and whatever.”

Doyoung takes the sentiment from those words and drains them dry. “Praying won’t help.” Not them. Not anymore.

“Has the hunger gotten to your head?” Yuta gives him a playful shove, but the force of it almost knocks Doyoung off his feet. “Is hangry just your default emotion now?”

“Like psychopathy is yours?”

“I’m starving as much as you are.”

“Better us than them, huh?”

Yuta shrugs. “I guess so.” His voice is as hollow as his smile.

* * *

There used to be a time when Doyoung was selfish.

Many years ago, he wouldn’t hesitate to put his own needs first and be content to just take and never give back. Charity was a foreign concept. He had no time to waste on people who can never give him anything in return. The world was his oyster, owing him too much for too long, and Doyoung had every intention of collecting everything he could.

Then a few years later, he met Yuta Nakamoto.

And over cheap booze smuggled in by his friends and a night spent lying together on his shitty dorm mattress, Doyoung realizes something as Yuta bit his shoulder hard enough to bleed. 

Selfishness is not the same as self-preservation.

Doyoung could have stopped him then. He could have pushed Yuta off and called the police on him. He could have fought back.

“I can’t wait to ruin you,” Yuta had whispered, teeth tugging on Doyoung’s single earring and ripping it clean through his ear. It hurt so fucking bad, but Doyoung’s expression remained as cold as the hand pressing against his chest.

Yuta flashes Doyoung a glimpse of the delicate silver ring held on his tongue—stained red with still a bit of flesh attached to it—before swallowing it down.

And Doyoung stupidly laid there beneath him, blood pooling under his head, and said the only honest thing that came to mind.

“Too late.”


	3. Chapter 3

The neighborhood they walk to isn’t too far away, but it still takes the better part of an hour to get there. Unlike the area with the abandoned grocery stores, this place is completely residential, with rows upon rows of nearly-identical, squat little houses. A rusted pedestrian crossing sign marks a fork in the road, and Yuta tugs Doyoung to the one leading to the left.

“Less houses,” he explains when Doyoung shoots him a questioning look. “Less witnesses.”

“Like you’re one to actually care,” Doyoung snaps back, but goes along anyways. “Which one do you think we should go for?”

“Who cares? Nice place like this, these people are bound to have something.” Yuta points to the closest house, its shutters closed and dark in the early morning. Doyoung maths out their escape route, and concludes that if they run like the devil’s on their ass, they might just make it back in time for breakfast. Or what’s left of it.

Doyoung feels so hungry. His arms brush against his ribcage as he shifts the bag slung over his back, and the impact is hard and just borderline painful. His insides give a dull throb with each step he takes towards the house, and it’s only when he’s finally staring directly at the white painted wood that the pangs die away.

“Ready?” Yuta asks, tugging on a pair of black gloves.

Doyoung looks sharply at Yuta, then at the door before them. “Okay, just to remind you, we’re doing this for the kids.”

“Jisung?”

“Well, yes. But not just him.” Doyoung cracks his knuckles one by one, willing the small bout of anxiety within him to die down. “God, Yuta. Jisung’s only ten. Ten and dying.”

“What a fucked time to be alive,” Yuta agrees. “Poor little darling.”

“Look, can we just get this over with?” Doyoung adjusts his bag over his shoulder again. “Please. I don’t want to be here any longer than we have to. Let’s just get the medicine, some food, and go.”

“All you had to do was ask.” Yuta lowers his own bag to the floor, unzipping it to pull out an axe. It’s on the weathered side, the wooden handle tarnished with dirt and questionable brown stains, but its blade is clean and polished to a near-mirror quality. 

Doyoung decides not to ask Yuta where the hell he got the axe from, because nobody asks a barely-sane man how he gets his hands on a very deadly weapon. Nobody who wants to keep their life, that is.

With one strong swing, the door splinters right down the middle, Yuta’s axe going right through the thin wood like it’s made of paper. Two more swings and Yuta kicks down the broken halves of the door, treading in like he owns the place. Doyoung follows closely, kicking the larger splinters out of the way as he trails behind the madman.

“Y’know what I just realized?” Yuta whispers into the darkness of the living room.

Doyoung wanders over into the small kitchen off to the side and pries open the refrigerator. He takes a quick inventory of the food inside, before slinging his bag off his shoulders and pulling out as much food as he can safely handle.

“What?”

“What if they have a gun?” Yuta giggles, juggling his axe between his hands. “We’d be so fucked then.”

Doyoung pauses from where he’s cramming his bag full of food. “They don’t have guns,” he deadpans, then promptly resumes his ransacking of the refrigerator.

“How would you know?”

“Ever since Dawn 648, when the massive shootings happened in the major capital cities, the government put a gun ban on the country,” Doyoung recites, pulling out a loaf of bread and pushing it into his bag. “They basically nullified the right to carry any sort of firearms. Barely anyone outside the military owns guns anymore.”

“And if they so happen to be the rare civilians who do?”

“Then we kill them before they kill us.” Doyoung turns to meet eyes with Yuta as the sound of approaching footsteps echo in the otherwise quiet space. “Duh.”

Yuta grins, holding his axe with both hands as the first flicker of light illuminates the hallway. Doyoung abandons his fridge raid and pulls out the bat he kept stowed in his bag. They sneak quietly to the darker corners of the room just as a shadow comes into view. Yuta glides along the walls quieter than a cat, and Doyoung heads the opposite way, a little more clumsily, but just as silent.

“Who’s there?” a gruff voice calls, before the cock of a shotgun echoed into the room.

Doyoung catches Yuta’s eye from the other side of the room, and the other man mouths  _ ‘I told you so’ _ . He has half a mind to bash Yuta’s head in with the bat as well, but murdering an accomplice is never going to earn Doyoung any more than he will with Yuta alive, so he ignores the attitude and focuses on the approaching figure with the gun.

There comes a time to ask, and a time to take. Taeyong has warned them of the dangers of taking from others who want to keep what is theirs, but Doyoung has never liked following rules, and he knows for a fact that Yuta never followed rules, period.

It’s one of the reasons why they managed to survive as long as they have. 

The sound of breathing reaches Doyoung’s ears, and Yuta’s wide, crazed stare meets his own. The barrel of a gun pokes out from within the hallway, followed by a large, calloused hand. Doyoung feels his breath stop as an arm follows, raising the rifle and pointing it around the dark room. The silhouette of a man grows heavier until it is not shadow, but a being of flesh and blood before them, and Doyoung feels adrenaline spike in his blood.

He’s quick to move, but Yuta is quicker, and without even batting an eye, he jumps from his hiding place against the wall, swinging his axe in a wide sideways arc. The blade catches the man right in the front of the throat, and he topples back, gun still clenched in his hands. Doyoung hurriedly moves out of the range of fire, but isn’t fast enough to dodge the glancing blow the man sends him with the butt of the rifle. The impact knocks cleanly into Doyoung’s cheekbone, and Yuta reacts immediately, taking another swing of his axe and chopping right into the man’s distended belly.

Doyoung ignores the pain in his face and the sight of guts falling to the floor in favor of prying the gun away as Yuta looms over their victim, bloody axe by his side and a thousand-watt smile on his face.

“Don’t take it personally, geezer,” he says as the older man below him gasps and gurgles out blood from his mouth. The cuts are deep and open, revealing only dark red, and Doyoung watches in fascination as the man chokes and wheezes on his own blood. The gun rests heavy and safe in his hands, fully loaded.

A woman screams.

“Yuta!”

Doyoung sees the flash of silver before he can bodily push Yuta away, but the other man has enough sense to automatically jump back, right as a small knife cuts a slit in his shirt.

“Shit.” Doyoung’s arms move before his head even lifts to see, and suddenly, he has the barrel of the rifle pointing at the center of a woman’s forehead. The dead man’s wife, no doubt. Her eyes are wide in fear and panic and a small penknife is gripped tightly in her fist.

With another animalistic scream, she lunges at Doyoung.

A bang resonates sharp and clear, and specks of blood pepper Doyoung’s face as the woman’s head snaps back, spraying the wall behind her with blood and bits of brain matter. She falls limp over her husband’s still-heaving body, knife falling to the floor.

Doyoung spits out the blood that got on his lip and loosens his hold on the gun as he heads back to the kitchen.

“Fucking hell.”

A rhythm of slow claps follow behind him. “I’m impressed.”

Doyoung turns on the kitchen tap and runs his hands under the cool water. “Well, I didn’t have much of a choice, now do I?”

“And here I thought you wouldn’t have the balls to actually shoot,” Yuta drawls as Doyoung washes off the blood from his face. “Who would’ve known.”

“Them, or us, Yuta? Make up your mind.” Doyoung tosses the towel he snatched to the floor and picks up the rifle once again. “Shut up and help me see if there’s any flammable substances lying around.”

Yuta’s grin grows even wider, if possible. “There’s always something under the kitchen sink.”

They find half a gallon of gasoline and two liters of hand sanitizer under the kitchen sink, the latter of which Yuta shoves into his bag. Doyoung finds some flour in the cupboards, along with a box of non-dairy coffee creamer, sugar, and spices. A little more scrounging turns up a small box of matches, a bottle of acetone, and some moth balls.

Yuta bags the better part of the edibles and a bottle of aspirin from the bathroom, and Doyoung busies himself with dousing the two bodies and the furniture with gasoline, acetone, moth balls, and coffee creamer.

“But why coffee creamer?” Yuta asks as they haul their bags over their shoulders. He passes one of the damp rags in his hand to Doyoung and they both wrap the cloths around the lower half of their faces.

Doyoung strikes a match, letting it fall on top of the gasoline-doused bodies. The fire that starts is an immediate flash of red, devouring the flammable trail Doyoung left around the room.

“Sodium aluminosilicate,” Doyoung replies afterwards, backing away from the burning bodies and heading out the way they came. “Highly combustible, unstable as hell under heat.”

“Seems like that one year in college actually did you some good.”

“You’re welcome, then.”

As they watch the house burn from the (relative) safety of the lawn, Doyoung pulls out his pack of cigarettes and holds it out to Yuta. 

“Cigarette?”

“Thanks.” Yuta plucks one out nimbly and twirls it around as Doyoung pulls out his own. He gestures to the scene before them. “Shall we?”

Doyoung shrugs. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but the house is scorching at this point, red embers flying away in the breeze and black smoke looming over the entire area like its own personalized doomsday cloud. The heat and ashes burn his eyes, and even from behind his moist rag, Doyoung can taste the smoke of burning wood and paint.

_ What the hell _ . 

“Why not?”

They approach the burning exterior of the building, rags pressed against their mouths, and hold their cigarettes out for the flames to lick.

“Hey,” Yuta pulls off his rag as they retreat from the smoking building, holding up his cigarette. “This is fucking  _ lit _ .”

Oh  _ NO _ .

Doyoung can’t help it. He lashes out and punches Yuta right across the cheek, because the asshole totally deserves it. The other stumbles a few steps, but then he’s standing straight again, looking at Doyoung with the smuggest expression, and it’s so, so hard to keep all these feelings in.

When Doyoung finally cracks up, it's exhilaration and ecstasy and a rush of sharp pains through his chest. He throws his head back, inhaling wood smoke and ashes as he laughs hysterically, and Yuta does the same. They clasp onto each other, guffawing all the way down the street. Had there been anyone alive or caring enough to survey, they surely would’ve been pegged as crazy.

“Oh my god,” Doyoung wheezes, laughing so hard he can barely stand upright. “My fucking god, you DIDN’T.”

“Bitch, I DID!” Yuta hollers back, and they crack up all over again, cigarettes forgotten.

Behind them, the house burns the same shade as the rosy hue of the approaching dawn.


	4. Chapter 4

Taeyong is trying hard to look angry and intimidating as he looms over Doyoung and Yuta, but it’s not working. He looks more like an irritated cat than anything else, with his eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed in a displeased pout. If Doyoung doesn’t know how fast and deadly Taeyong’s reflexes are, he’d stand right up and pinch his cheeks for a reaction.

“I get that we’re all stressed at this time, but violence, especially _senseless_ violence, is not the answer,” Taeyong scolds, pacing back and forth before them.

Yuta dabs at the cut under his collarbone tenderly with a clean rag. “It is, if you ask the right questions,” he replies. 

Doyoung nods in agreement. “They were hoarding so much stuff, Yong. Jisung needs the medicine. He’s only ten. Those people lived long enough.” 

Yuta raises his hand for a fist bump, which Doyoung obliges. “Pretty much anyone over forty has lived their lives. We’re the new generation, Tae. The world is ours now.” He smirks. “Might as well make it what we will, y’know?”

Taeyong’s face slowly grows redder and redder from frustration, and Doyoung silently counts the different shades that pass until Taeyong opens his mouth to yell at them. He barely gets to five before Taeyong completely loses his cool.

“You two are literally the worst people I’ve ever had the displeasure of encountering! Have you no moral compass at all?” the older man shouts.

“That’s usually my job,” Doyoung drawls, shifting the ice pack over his swollen cheekbone. “But when one of the kids is running a fever hot enough to cook with and is barely nourished, to hell with morality.”

“Jisung got the medicine he needs, didn’t he?” Yuta adds. “So what’s the problem here?”

“The problem is that you two heathens just murdered two people!” Taeyong screeches. “They probably had children too!”

“Children who were _not there_ ,” Doyoung emphasizes, feeling irritation simmer inside him the longer he has to argue with Taeyong. “So either they’re dead or grown up and moved out. And besides, we wouldn’t have to kill them if they didn’t give us a hard time.”

Taeyong looks like he’s about to say something else, but gives up on it, and just turns away with a huff. The redness of his face spreads to his ears and all the way down his neck, visible even from across the room. 

Doyoung watches their leader leave, feeling absolutely nothing but satisfaction. Pissing off Taeyong is always so fucking easy, and he gives the best reactions, so it’s just funny to watch. Not like Doyoung will voluntarily be put up for a yelling session from Taeyong, but when it happens, he tries to enjoy it as much as he can.

In a perfect world, where people aren’t dying from insanity and they aren’t just a ragtag group of kids and barely-adults living in an abandoned mental hospital, Doyoung would think they almost could be a family. Taeyong cares—he knows that—but sometimes, he cares too much. Maybe if they can all be healthy and the little ones aren’t orphans, then maybe they could all be something more.

Maybe Doyoung wouldn’t have had his education cut short.

Maybe Yuta wouldn’t become a complete sociopath for the sake of survival.

Maybe they could actually do some good in this world, instead of just running it down even further.

But reality is not as kind, and when Doyoung’s vision focuses back on the room, it’s still the same bleak, broken infirmary they’re sitting in. Yuta’s cut still hasn’t stopped bleeding, and pain shoots through Doyoung’s cheek when he shifts the ice pack.

“We did the right thing,” he sighs, watching blood soak into the cloth Yuta is pressing against his collarbone. “It was justified.”

Yuta shrugs with a wince. “Justified or not, it’s a game of survival now. Either we play, and play it well, or we lose and boom, we’re all dead.” His eyes shift until they’re locked on Doyoung’s, and there is not enough divine power in the world for Doyoung to look away.

“So Doyoung, are we playing to win? Or are we content to just scrape by and eventually lose?”

“There’s no winning for us in this game, Yuta,” Doyoung deadpans. “Nature wins. We don’t. We can’t. We’re only playing this for fun.”

A wicked grin splits over Yuta’s face as he pulls the bloody cloth away and holds it out towards Doyoung. The cut hasn’t stopped bleeding, but Doyoung takes the cloth from him anyways, watching as Yuta licks his thumb and swipes away some stray blood streaks along his skin.

“Here’s to fun, then.” Yuta stands up and raises his arms to gesture at their dingy makeshift lounge. “Live fast, play dirty, burn bridges.”

“Kill or be killed,” Doyoung continues, dropping his ice pack and standing up as well. “Selfishness thrives in a world under pressure.”

Yuta holds out his hand. “So let’s have some fun.”

Doyoung clasps the hand with his own. “Life’s not over yet.”

They shake.

* * *

That night, Taeil and Jaehyun make a hearty vegetable stew and rice for dinner. Everyone gets a small bowl of rice topped with exactly one ladle of soup. There are no side dishes. No meat. Just rows of small metal bowls and two medium-sized pots that are quickly being emptied.

Doyoung only eats two bites of his own serving—just enough to quell the clawing hunger inside him, before taking his bowl of stew and rice over to where the children are sitting. They are all huddled together, being entertained by one of Johnny’s grandiose fairy tales. Most of their bowls are already empty.

Without a word, Doyoung scoops portions of his own food into each of the children’s bowls. Johnny looks at him, surprised, before smiling and doing the same with his own serving. Mark and Chenle thank them quietly, and begin eating with little reserve. Jisung barely lifts his head to acknowledge Doyoung from where he’s held in Kun’s gentle embrace, the man gently coaxing small bites of food into the boy’s mouth. Jaemin starts crying the moment Doyoung spoons the last of the food into his bowl, and Jeno’s calm soothing does nothing to help dry his tears.

“Jaemin,” Doyoung says softly, lowering himself to one knee in front of the boy’s seat. “Why’re you crying, kiddo?”

“H-hyung…” Jaemin chokes out between sobs. “W-why’re you giving your food to us?”

“You need it more than I do,” Doyoung says, raising a hand to gently wipe away the tears streaming down Jaemin’s face. “You’re growing kids. How can we let you all go hungry?”

Jaemin looks at him with wide, glossy eyes, and Doyoung sees a worry in them that no child should ever have to endure. “But hyung,” Jaemin sniffles. “What will you eat?”

“I’m not that hungry, Jaeminie,” Doyoung lies, ignoring the dull throbbing of his mostly-empty stomach. “You guys eat, alright?”

He leaves the kids to eat their meal in peace, and excuses himself from the room altogether, because Doyoung swears that if he smells food for a second longer, he’s going to lose his mind.

There’s a secluded corner at the end of the hall from their makeshift dining room, and Doyoung stops by its open window, pulling out a cigarette and his lighter. The smoke lights up his body with nicotine and gives him a muted high, but it takes the better of two cigarettes for him to forget that he was ever hungry.

“I see you’ve moved on to dessert already.”

Doyoung snorts but doesn’t move from his spot, instead holding out the hand with the cigarette box out towards Johnny. The other man takes one, and Doyoung tosses him his lighter, only noticing that Johnny’s done when the blue plastic is waved in front of his face a couple seconds later.

They stand together in silence, smoking and watching the trees rustle from the night breeze. Puffs of gray and wisps and circles hang in the air between them, slowly becoming dissipated by the wind coming through the window. Doyoung puts out his cigarette against the concrete windowsill, and turns to see Johnny watching him with a strange look in his eyes.

“What?”

Johnny shrugs, letting out another lungful of smoke. “I just wanted to check up on you. What you did back there was really touching. Those kids totally adore you, y’know?”

Doyoung laughs mirthlessly and tries to convince himself that the weird feeling inside his chest isn’t his heart threatening to shatter. “God, those kids. As if we’re all not starving already. I won’t grow any more. They need it more than I do.”

Johnny hums, reaching out a hand to wrap around Doyoung’s bicep. His fingers touch easily around Doyoung’s arm and jacket combined.

“You talk like you’re not also starving, Doyoung,” Johnny says, voice dropping to a more serious tone. “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

“Like three weeks ago.” Doyoung doesn’t bother lying or making up a number, because it’s Johnny he’s talking to. Johnny, who loves the children as much as Doyoung does and kills to protect at all costs. And if Doyoung has to confide some sensitive information for him to protect, he knows that Johnny will keep the secret with his life. The last time he ate properly is nothing compared to some of the other things he’s told Johnny before.

“Dude,” Johnny sighs, exhaling another breath of smoke. “I get you’re just watching out for the kids, but you can’t just—god, you can’t just starve yourself to _death_ , Doyoung.”

“I know.” Doyoung turns back to the window, watching the black nothingness that lies beyond. “But what can I do, Johnny? If it wasn’t for this fucking virus, we won’t all be sheltered in this insane asylum just slowly starving. I know my priorities.”

“Which are?”

“Keeping those goddamn kids safe and alive,” Doyoung replies easily. “We’re all trying to survive, but don’t you think they deserve a chance to live? To maybe have a normal life once this fucking virus blows over.”

“ _If_ the fucking virus blows over,” Johnny corrects. “There’s no cure. No vaccine. It’s been going on for over three years, Doyoung. I don’t think it’s ever gonna stop.”

“Yeah, but if we can just even buy them a little more time—”

“Doyoung.” Johnny’s eyes are sad when they meet Doyoung’s. The strength from before is gone, replaced only with raw human vulnerability that Johnny rarely shows to anyone. “You know how this will end. We’re all just sitting ducks until the virus kills us all.” 

Doyoung knows that he’s probably being unrealistically optimistic about the whole thing, but it’s all for the sake of his sanity, if nothing else. Scientists and doctors all over the world have dedicated years of their lives to research this virus in hopes of finding effective preventions and cures, but all anyone’s ever achieved is death by madness. It’s a lost cause at this point. 

Why does he even bother hoping anymore?

Why is he trying so hard?

Doyoung thinks it over, and the only answer he can muster comes in the form of memories. In his mind’s eye, Doyoung can see Mark carrying Jisung on his back as they run through the woods, laughing as Donghyuck chases after them. He sees Jaemin and Jeno bringing back all sorts of plants and flowers from the yard to gift to the older boys with. He remembers the bonfires they have every other month out in the backyard, where Jeno would play a broken guitar as they all sing songs that are no longer played on the radio. He hears Chenle’s loud laugh as he and Renjun climb the fruit trees in abandoned backyards to pick the fruit nobody wants anymore. 

He sees Taeyong running into the yard in a dirty apron and hollering for all the kids to come back inside before it gets dark. Johnny is right behind him, laughing as he ushers the kids into the building, where Jaehyun and Taeil are busy in the kitchen, preparing everyone’s dinners. 

And the smiles. God, the _smiles_. That little hint of happiness on all of their faces is something Doyoung will kill and fight for his whole life if he has to. 

“We’re all gonna die,” Doyoung finally admits, turning to Johnny and giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “In fact, we’re all dying right now. But there’s no reason to just die miserable, is there?”

Johnny blinks at him, looking lost, before a small smile pulls his lips upward. He slings an arm around Doyoung’s shoulders, and Doyoung allows himself to be pulled into Johnny’s embrace. He smells like the earth and cigarette smoke, and reminds Doyoung of everything that is safe and secure.

“No,” Johnny says softly. “No, I guess there isn’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

Yuta finds him sometime later, like he always does.

Doyoung feels Yuta entering his room before he hears the gentle footfalls. He waits, and soon there’s a pair of thin arms wrapping around his shoulders, close enough to his neck that if Yuta just tightened his hold a little more, Doyoung would begin to suffocate.

“You haven’t eaten.”

It’s not a question. Yuta’s voice is knowing, with an airy lilt that honestly has no place in Doyoung’s headspace this late at night.

“I had a bite. That’s enough.” Doyoung bats away Yuta’s arms and turns in his chair to look at the man standing behind him. Yuta is topless, dressed only in a towel wrapped around his waist and sandals. His skin is slightly ashy and his bones jut out sharply against his skin, making the tattoos scattered over his torso bend and dip oddly.

“Are you gonna talk, or did you just barge in here to bother me?” Doyoung deadpans.

Yuta smiles lazily, stretching up a hand to run it through his dark hair. “I came to invite you for a bath.”

“A bath,” Doyoung echoes. “Right. In our non-existent bathtub right around the corner. With hot water that we don’t have. Would you like some bath bombs as well? They’re clear and light as air.”

Yuta laughs. “Of course. Bring them all. The more the better.”

Doyoung rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother arguing as he stands and begins to undress, shucking off his clothes and kicking them into the corner where all his dirty laundry is kept. He feels Yuta’s eyes on him, tracing his every move and raking over every inch of exposed skin. Doyoung doesn’t pay any attention to the other man’s gaze as he strips down to his bare skin, but the heat of Yuta’s stare lingers on his skin like warm coals. 

“You’re so fucking skinny.” Doyoung flinches when a hand suddenly grabs his waist, bony fingers digging into the thin layer of flesh right under his ribcage. Yuta kneads the skin there, his touch rough enough to bruise.

“Like you’re any better.” Doyoung slaps his hand away and slips into a pair of sandals similar to Yuta’s, before grabbing the clean, threadbare towel hanging from the back of his doorknob. “Touch me like that again and I’ll eat your hand.”

Yuta grins wickedly, motioning at a litter of faded scars sprinkled over his shoulders and chest. “You say that like you didn’t give up on it all those other times.”

It’s a trap, one Doyoung knows like the back of his hand. Yuta’s smile stays in place, as twisted as its master, and a dull throbbing in Doyoung’s side tells him that he’s already starting to bleed. The marks won’t go away anytime soon. His body is too weak to heal properly these days. Yuta knows this.

They walk down the hall and out into the garden in silence. All the lights are off and the doors are all closed. It’s late, way later than anyone of sound mind would bother staying up for, and the only thing guiding them in the right direction is the muscle memory from making the same trek hundreds of times before.

Yuta’s smile never fades away completely as they walk, and goosebumps raise all over Doyoung the farther they venture out. Whether it’s from Yuta’s presence or the night chill, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he ever wants to know.

The garden is a field of darkness and misshapen shapes when they step out, the only light source coming from a couple dingy solar-powered garden torches surrounding the common bathing area. Yuta brings forth a large plastic bucket, and Doyoung reaches behind the ring of torches for the garden hose. A couple twists and a gush of cold water later, the bucket is half-full, foaming sparsely from the suds of soap Yuta squeezed under the powerful spray.

Soap. Another luxury they’re all running low on. It’s no body wash or shampoo, but it gets the job done. Doyoung tries not to think about how dry his skin or how brittle his hair will become the next day as he scrubs his skin raw with the freezing, barely-soapy water. His bare hands run over the length of his arms, nails scratching the skin until it turns red. Next to him, Yuta is doing the same, humming a little tune as he runs his nails over his torso like his body’s overrun with ants.

Doyoung rinses them both down with another blast from the hose, and from then, it’s a frenzy of towel-grabbing and speed-walking back into the relative warmth of the institution. Yuta’s wet hair is plastered to his face and Doyoung’s shivering uncontrollably, slipping a little in his wet sandals as he wraps his towel tighter around his body.

They both head back the same way, and Doyoung doesn’t bother shutting the door the moment he enters.

He gets his peace—a whole five minutes of it—before those pair of arms are back again, wrapping around his waist as Doyoung tightens the drawstrings of his pajama pants as far as they can go. In the back of his mind, Doyoung silently thanks his lucky stars that years of practice have made him exceptional at doing things fast and efficiently.

“Get off me.”

“No.” Yuta’s breath fans over Doyoung’s ear, warm and smelling like mint. “I’ve made up my mind tonight.”

Doyoung feels tiredness seep all the way down to his bones. “What do you want?”

“You.” Yuta’s voice lowers to a dangerous tone. “All of you.”

“I’m tired.”

“I don’t care.”

Doyoung doesn’t even know why he bothers fighting back. His body is exhausted and his head is starting to cloud over with sleepiness. Yuta’s hold is a vice, warm and more comforting than Doyoung will ever admit out loud. His voice is poisoned honey, sweet and slow and a certain death sentence if yielded to.

And Doyoung, despite everything, does not yield.

He won’t.

They shuffle awkwardly to Doyoung’s bed together, and Yuta lets go just enough for Doyoung to throw back the covers and climb in. Doyoung doesn’t shoo Yuta away, but he does make a point of turning his back on him.

“So you wanna play it this way, huh?” Yuta’s voice is low as the bed dips, and Doyoung tries to keep his breaths even as an arm snakes around his midsection. “I can wait, Doyoung. I’m good at waiting.” He leans in, closing his lips around the thin slit in Doyoung’s earlobe. The gesture is soft, but unkind. Doyoung feels pricks of phantom pain bloom in his ear as Yuta gently suckles at the scar.

“Wait ‘til I’m dead,” Doyoung hisses, nudging his elbow back and catching Yuta square in the ribs. He takes no pleasure in the pained yelp the other lets out. “You can fuck my dead body like the sick bastard you are.”

Yuta chuckles, sounding slightly winded. “I’m not a deranged psycho, Doie. What the hell are you smoking?”

“Cigarettes. About every other day.”

“Nicotine getting to your head?” Yuta’s hand slinks over Doyoung’s abdomen, rubbing gentle circles over his protruding ribs. “I think you’re feeding the wrong place.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“Yes. But—” Yuta leans in closer, pressing a kiss against the back of Doyoung’s neck. “—you’d be so much easier to kill like this. Weakened, starving, it’ll be almost too easy.”

Doyoung jerks his arm back again, but this time Yuta anticipates the action and catches the point of his elbow before it can inflict any damage.

“Thanks for pointing out my weaknesses,” Doyoung grits out as he pulls his arm away. “But if I’m gonna die, it’ll be on my terms. You have no say in that.”

Yuta presses another kiss to his neck. “How long do you think we have left, then?”

Doyoung stares at the gray plaster facing him. Shadows dance over the ashy surface, figures as fleeting and muddled as they are unnerving. 

How long do they have?

He doesn’t know.

With the way the pandemic is progressing, it could be weeks or months. Maybe even another couple years. Decades seem a bit of a stretch, though. Doyoung doesn’t think all of them could realistically survive to see a whole decade pass by.

“Long enough,” he finally answers. The words roll off his tongue easily. Honestly. Doyoung doesn’t dare say anything else.

Not with Yuta here.

* * *

When the morning comes, Yuta is gone.

And there’s nothing romantic or nostalgic about it. No ‘still feeling his body heat seeping in the blankets’, no ‘ghosts of lingering touches’, no cute little note stuck on his nightstand.

Nothing.

Doyoung wakes up alone, like how he usually does. Like how he usually _should_. And the peace and quiet is a welcome moment of bliss.

Another day has started.

“Hyung?”

Doyoung pauses in peeling off his shirt, glancing over at his door, which is now open. Mark is standing at the threshold, cupping a small bowl in his hands. His eyes widen when they meet Doyoung’s, and he immediately takes a step back.

“H-hyung, I’m sorry. Your door wasn’t closed all the way, and I thought you were—”

“Mark,” Doyoung interrupts, beckoning for the boy to come in. “It’s fine. What can I help you with?”

Mark steps forward again, and holds out the bowl for Doyoung to take. It’s filled with some wild blackberries and a couple crackers—a meager portion, not even enough to be considered a snack, but Doyoung’s heart swells at the gesture.

“Is this for me?”

Mark nods. “Yeah. Johnny-hyung said that you haven’t been eating lately. I’m...we’re all worried about you. I know you’re always looking out for us but...hyung, you need to _eat_.”

Doyoung smiles, taking the bowl from Mark’s hands and setting it aside on his battered table. “Thank you, Mark. I appreciate it. Have you eaten?”

Mark nods. “We had breakfast about an hour ago. Taeyong-hyung asked me to wake you up but Yuta-hyung said you were still resting so I thought I’d come by a little later.”

Doyoung reaches up and gives Mark’s head a gentle pat. “That’s real nice of you, Mark. I’ll be sure to eat these.” His voice drops to a more serious tone. “How’s Jisung? Is he doing better?”

“His fever went down,” Mark says, pausing when Doyoung exhales a breath of relief. “His appetite still isn’t very good, but he’s eating more than he used to.”

That’s not setting the standard very high, but Doyoung feels that it’s not in his place to argue. So instead, he asks: “Did everyone get screened today? No symptoms of infection or anything, right?”

“None,” Mark affirms, and stops short. He looks like he wants to say something else, but is too afraid to.

“What’s on your mind, Mark?” Doyoung prompts gently.

“Hyung, about Jisung…” Mark trails off, eyes looking anywhere but at Doyoung’s face. “You were going to study medicine before. So based on what you know, will Jisung...he’s not—he won’t die, will he?”

And just like that, Doyoung’s heart falls to the pit of his stomach. They all know the statistics. Infection rates among the immunocompromised completely dwarfs every other population. Jisung has been sick for so long, and the virus hasn’t died down yet.

The truth is ugly, but reality has never been beautiful.

“Mark,” Doyoung says softly, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Understand something here. I know it’s not looking good for any of us, but in Jisung’s case...well…”

Mark’s eyes widen and pool with tears. His lips tremble in tandem with every word Doyoung speaks.

“I can’t guarantee he’ll be protected from the virus,” Doyoung continues. “Not with his current condition. The rest of us might have a better fighting chance, but if Jisung is exposed, I’m...I’m afraid the worst will happen.”

“No,” Mark whimpers as a tear slides down his cheek. “Hyung, we’ll keep him safe! We’ll keep everyone safe! T-there has to be something we can do!”

“We’re all doing the best we can,” Doyoung says. “Washing every day, sanitizing everything we use, self-screening, everything. I know we’re all fighting hard, Mark. It’s just that...if worst comes to worst, we need to accept—”

Mark shakes his head. “Please, hyung, stop.”

Doyoung stops. He takes Mark’s face gently in his hands and brushes away the falling tears.

“I wish things could be better for us, Mark.” Doyoung pulls the younger into a firm embrace, wincing when he feels bone under Mark’s shirt. “I’m sorry we’re all like this now.”

Doyoung is sorry.

He’s sorry for everything.

Doyoung’s sorry for breaking Mark’s heart every time he goes out to gather supplies. He’s sorry for worrying him and everyone else by starving himself so they can eat more. He’ll always be sorry for not knowing enough about this virus to give them all the best form of protection.

And above all else, he’s sorry for telling Mark the truth.

Doyoung wishes he could lie his way out of this. That he can just tell Mark that everything will be okay and they'll manage to make it work. Nobody will be lost. So long as they stay here and don't go out around other people, they should be fine.

But there’s no such thing as a white lie now.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been almost a week now, and Doyoung is killing himself.

Not that he isn’t already dying, but lately he’s just doing nature a favor and expediting the process.

Ever since that visit from Mark, Doyoung can’t get the thought of losing Jisung out of his head. It haunts him in his dreams and distracts him from his chores during the day. All he can see is the chipper, happy little boy—the baby of their family—slipping farther and farther away from him. One minute he’s lingering by Doyoung’s side, holding onto his sleeve or hugging him around the waist, and the next, he’s being pulled away by an invisible force and sucked into a pit of darkness.

And every time, Doyoung tries to reach out and catch him. He wants to pull Jisung back and hug him to his chest, where he’ll be safe. He wants to save him.

But each time, Jisung slips away.

It’s gotten to the point where Doyoung can no longer sleep. The nightmares are too painful and he would rather suffer the consequences of insomnia than subject himself to another night of heartache. Taeyong offers him some sleeping pills, but even those aren’t enough to stave off the dreams from plaguing Doyoung’s mind. He tries upping the dosage, but soon realizes that would be a VERY BAD IDEA.

So Doyoung doesn’t sleep.

And much to Mark’s (and everyone else’s) chagrin, he doesn’t eat. He can’t. Mark dutifully shows up outside his door every morning at nine to invite him down for breakfast, and each time, Doyoung politely declines him. And on the rare days that Mark convinces him to go, whether by openly begging or by dragging Taeyong along with him, Doyoung can never get more than a couple bites down. 

These days, Doyoung just can’t find it in himself to develop an appetite. His head is always full of fear, and he’s so bone-tired all the time that his own body gives up on its basic warning functions. It could also be because he’s smoking about every day now. Either way, hunger has become a foreign sensation. He can’t even remember the last time he went with everyone else for a proper meal.

All Doyoung does now—all he  _ can _ do now—is take care of Jisung. Doyoung dotes on the boy like his life depends on it, which in a sense, it does. He goes through the long and frankly tedious process of heating water in the kitchen to bathe Jisung every night, and personally delivers his doses of vitamins and medicine every day. Jisung is still visibly ill, but his skin has regained some of its color and some of that childish energy that he used to exude freely returned to his movements.

“Doie-hyung,” Jisung says softly one day as Doyoung combs his hair for him. “You’re tired.”

It’s not a question. Jisung says it knowingly, with too much calmness and understanding for a ten-year-old. Doyoung blames it completely on Sicheng’s influence.

“I’m fine, Sungie. Hyung’s perfectly fine, see?” He gestures to himself, waving his hands around to emphasize that no, he’s not a walking corpse. Doyoung might be halfway there, but he’s still kicking. And as immature as it seems, he’s willing to defend himself to the death in front of this little boy.

Jisung doesn’t look convinced, eyes narrowing in scrutiny as he looks Doyoung up and down. Doyoung blames himself for that one. “Hyung...you have panda eyes.” He points at the deep, dark crescents hanging below Doyoung’s eyes. “And you smell like smoke.”

“Sungie, I promise you, it’s nothing to worry about,” Doyoung tries again. “I’m fine.”

“You know, Markie-hyung came to visit me yesterday,” Jisung continues, his small hands finding Doyoung’s and holding onto them lightly. “He was crying. He said that you won’t eat anything.”

Doyoung has no comebacks for that one, because it’s true. And it breaks his heart, having to hear all of this from Jisung. Of course Mark would be worried. He has every right to be, and Doyoung realizes with a sinking clarity of how much pain he must be inflicting on the younger boy by doing something so seemingly trivial like skipping his meals when eating together means the world to Mark.

“I’ll eat more from now on, okay?” Doyoung closes his hand over Jisung’s and gives them a light squeeze. “I promise. I’ll eat more and we can get healthy and strong together.”

Jisung blinks up at him with shining, innocent eyes. “You mean it, hyung?”

“I mean it.” Doyoung leans in and presses a kiss to Jisung’s forehead. “Thank you for looking out for me, Sungie.”

Jisung giggles, rubbing a hand over where Doyoung’s lips had been. “Hyung does the same for me.” His smile is wide and brighter than any light Doyoung has ever encountered in his life. “Hyung would always do the same for me.”

“Yes,” Doyoung replies automatically, stroking over Jisung’s soft hands. “I will always watch over you."

* * *

Doyoung doesn’t know how obvious his distress is, but it must be apparent enough, because Taeil of all people shows up outside his door one night.

“Doyoung,” Taeil says with a sigh as he crosses the threshold and enters the room. “This is an intervention. Come and eat.” His sleeves are bunched up to his elbows, revealing arms full of scars. The gray apron that he never seems to take off is stained with a new array of red sauce—probably from the meal he made for tonight. 

“Hyung,” Doyoung says, immediately stubbing out his cigarette on the concrete wall and pushing himself up from his chair. His steps are shaky and the world tilts on its axis for a second when Doyoung takes his first couple steps. The belt tied around his waist digs into him painfully as his body suddenly pitches sideways. Taeil reaches over to help him, but Doyoung shakes his hand away and rights the world again by sheer force of will. 

“I’m fine,” he assures when Taeil shoots him a worried look. “I was gonna head out soon anyways. You didn’t have to come all the way here just to invite me.”

Taeil huffs out a small laugh. “If not me, then who? Who else are you going to listen to, Doyoung?”

“Hyung, you know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know.” Taeil reaches over and gently pats Doyoung’s bony shoulder. “But you can’t keep starving yourself like this. One morsel a day isn’t gonna cut it anymore. Mark’s been inconsolable for days and all the kids are worried about you. We know you mean well, but we need you to be fed as much as the rest of us.”

Doyoung shifts his gaze to the floor as the guilt sinks in. “Hyung, I’m just…” he sighs, feeling exhaustion creep deep into his bones. His head feels too light compared to the rest of his body. “I’m just...trying my best.”

Taeil smiles sympathetically. “We know. You’re a good man, Doyoung. You’re just making sure everyone has enough to eat. And we promise you, we do.”

“Oh, good,” Doyoung breathes in relief, shoulders sagging at the motion. Taeil frowns when the end of one sharp collarbone peeks out from the neckline of the raw-edged shirt hanging off Doyoung’s frail form. “I’ve been checking the supplies. If we stretch it out, we can all last probably another two weeks, maybe three.”

“Doyoung—” Taeil reaches over and takes Doyoung’s skinny wrist, raising it up until it’s at eye level to both of them. His small fingers wrap fully around the circumference of Doyoung’s wrist, the pressure almost painful on the protruding bone. “—you listen to me right now. We’re all fed. The kids are fed. There’s enough food for everyone for a while. We’re not starving to death just yet. Doyoung,” he pauses, taking in a shaky breath. “The only one starving to death here is  _ you _ .”

Doyoung lowers his head in shame. “I’ve been eating.”

“Two crackers and a bottle of water a day is not eating!” Taeil exclaims, voice rising higher than Doyoung has ever heard it. “You have got to stop doing this to yourself! One meal every once in a while, okay. I get that. Johnny does it. Jae does it. Hell, even I do it every now and then, but you haven’t had a proper meal in over a month! Please, don’t make me beg you again, Doyoung.”

“Hyung—”

“Look at you!” Taeil drops Doyoung’s wrist and gestures at his body. “You’re skin and bones! How can you expect to go scavenging like that? You have no strength! If you so much as step foot outside, the virus wouldn’t hesitate to bowl you over in two seconds!”

Tears spring to Doyoung’s eyes. “But you all—and the kids—Jisung—”

“No, stop. I don’t wanna hear it,” Taeil cuts in fiercely. “Jisung is  _ fine _ . The kids are  _ fine _ . Everyone is  _ fine _ . Yeah, Jisung was sick for a while but he’s better now. Yes, we’re all tired and drained and done with all this shit but goddamn it, Doyoung—you’re  _ dying _ .”

Doyoung blinks, unsurprised. “Am I?”

“Are you not?” Taeil snaps back. “Skipping meals, chain-smoking, not sleeping—are you  _ trying _ to die before the rest of us?”

Tears shine in the eldest’s eyes, and it strikes a chord somewhere deep inside Doyoung. Something painful. Aching. He wishes it could stop. 

Taeil’s lips quiver as he speaks. “Don’t do this to yourself anymore, Doyoung. Stop making it harder for the rest of us. How can we live with ourselves if you’re gone?”

And that is the last straw.

Doyoung eats with everyone else that night, instead of smoking the hunger away alone in his room. The dinner tonight is just simple pasta and tomato sauce, with a small bowl of charred meat that Johnny reveals to be wild turkey. He’d gone hunting out in the woods with Jaehyun the other day and they were lucky enough to spot the bird pecking along a tree. One shot from their rifle later, and the worry of protein deficiency is resolved.

For now.

Doyoung eats as much as he’s given, finishing off his pasta and turkey in record time. Mark gives him a relieved smile from across the table, eyes a little red and swollen. Taeyong watches him the entire time, which should be creepy, but Doyoung knows that he’s just doing it out of concern. Yuta eyes him curiously, a question in his gaze that Doyoung doesn’t bother replying to. Taeil makes his way around the table, giving out the last of the servings of pasta from his rickety pot. The kids always get their servings first, then the adults, if there’s any left. It’s how they’ve always rolled.

What is different though, is when Taeil stops by Doyoung’s side and drops a sloppy forkful into his bowl right after serving the kids.

“Eat some more, Doyoung.”

His stomach feels full already, but Doyoung isn’t sure if it’s actually the food or nicotine. When he lifts his head, several pairs of eyes are already looking at him. Johnny shoots him a gentle smile and drops another piece of turkey on top of the mess of pasta. Jaemin and Jeno stand from their seats and make their way over to Doyoung, each scooping half of their serving from their bowls and piling it into Doyoung’s.

“Hyung,” they say in unison. “You need to eat more.”

Doyoung’s heart swells and it spills over into his eyes. “Guys—”

“Please, eat,” Jeno says, pointing at Doyoung’s bowl, now almost full with food. “We want you to.”

Jaemin nods. “You’ve sacrificed so much for the rest of us already. We all owe you.”

“No, you don’t owe me a thing, really,” Doyoung says as he pulls the twins in for a hug. “It’s my duty to make sure you’re all fed. Don’t worry about it.”

“But hyung can’t starve forever for us,” Chenle pipes up from his seat by Johnny. “You need your energy.”

Doyoung chuckles breathily. Kids these days. They’re picking up on things so fast. “Okay, okay. I’ll eat. Thank you all so much.” 

It’s the best dinner of Doyoung’s life. And sure, the pasta is soggy and the sauce is too tart and the turkey tastes more like ‘burnt’ than actual poultry, but there’s more than the food that he’s feeding on. 

For the first time in a while, Doyoung feels full. His chest is warm and fuzzy, and his stomach is finally sated after being pinched under a belt for so long. 

The next morning, Mark is back outside his door, knocking three times and asking Doyoung if he’d like to come join everyone for breakfast.

And this time, Doyoung doesn’t refuse him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
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